


light me up

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Grinding, Hook-Up, M/M, One Night Stands, Power Play, Unrequited Love, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:35:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23658469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: There have only been a couple of occasions where Dirk has ever had to dance. Situations similar to this one, only there had been a lot more seduction going on, then; dark clubs with thumping music that Dirk could feel in his bones, tingling along his skin, crawling into him and stringing him up like a puppet. It didn’t matter how he moved, as long as it looked good, and it made people want him.Unhealthy coping mechanisms come in all shapes and sizes. Dirk might know this better than anyone.
Relationships: John Egbert/Dirk Strider
Comments: 6
Kudos: 77





	light me up

**Author's Note:**

> a fic commission for [this absolute angel](https://twitter.com/ectobabe) over on twitter. thank you for giving me the opportunity to go absolutely feral with these two, and i hope you enjoy it, love. 
> 
> this is only the first half. the rest will be coming soon, i promise. ♡

♥ ♥ ♥

By the time the third round of shots has been rolled out, Dirk has decided that this whole night is an official fucking bust. It’s a little selfish of him, since it isn’t his bachelor party, but the idiocy swirling around him in the form of his and Jake’s friends makes him hard pressed not to hate every single thing about it. It doesn’t help that the bass is so boosted it’s making his teeth slam together with every movement, even sitting down. He just really wishes he could be anywhere but here.

He’d promised Jake going into this whole thing that it wouldn’t be awkward; they were best friends before they’d dated, before they’d crashed and burned, a spectacular car crash fire on the sloping highway leading into young adulthood, and they were, eventually, best friends again after. Once Dirk had forced himself to come to terms with the fact that there was no conceivable way for them to function as a healthy couple, which took more time than he’s willing to admit. They’d worked things out, learned how to be on good, platonic terms, and Dirk hadn’t even acted hurt when Jake brought his first real boyfriend back home from college.

Oh, he’d definitely _been_ hurt – the important thing is that he hadn’t _acted_ hurt.

It had come as no surprise when three years later Jake was engaged, the same way it came as no surprise that, despite their history, Jake had extended the first offer of being his best man to Dirk. The sweet bastard had given him plenty of opportunity to say no, or to back out at the beginning, but there was something inside of Dirk that felt like he owed it to Jake, and to himself, to do this. Swallowing his anguish and pride was maybe the hardest thing Dirk had ever forced himself to do up to that point, but at the end of the day, all that mattered was Jake’s happiness.

Dirk wishes he could have realized that a hell of a lot sooner, but that’s all hindsight is good for, isn’t it? Making people her unwitting bitches, one way or another.

Overall, the process leading up to the wedding hasn’t been so bad. They’ve been so busy running around like chickens with their heads cut off to get everything organized that Dirk hasn’t really had the time to sit down and angst over any feelings, unresolved or otherwise, that he may have been harboring for his childhood best friend, ever since his first gay awakening – which implies that Jake _wasn’t_ his gay awakening.

(He was. Summer before ninth grade, shirtless and glistening with water at the same summer camp they’d been going to since they were kids; mouth ajar with laughter, hand raking through sopping wet hair, and suddenly Dirk had felt very, very much not like a child anymore.)

Everything feels so much worse now that things are winding to a close. It feels like their whole goddamn friend group has been going at it for days, spelunking and hiking and horseback riding and all the other weird, outdoorsy shit that Jake is obsessed with doing, probably because they have. Only to arrive here, at this stupid club, with it’s ridiculous fucking bass dropping it hot like it’s the latest Britney Spears track and the entire crowd is a bunch of prepubescent teenage girls, and not a metric fuckton of sweaty, drunk adults fist pumping arrhythmically to the beat.

In spite of everything, Dirk has done his best to keep a level head the last few days, reminding himself time and time again that this isn’t about him. It’s about Jake, and Jake’s wedding, and Jake’s future with his stupidly handsome, stupidly kind soon to be husband, and, wow, is it stifling in here all of a sudden, or is it just Dirk?

He needs more to drink.

The room feels heavier than it did a few minutes ago as Dirk gets to his feet. No one notices him as he slips away from the table they’ve claimed as their own, tucked into a corner and out of the way, a less than grand idea in retrospect, when taking into account just how far away the bar is. A thin sheen of sweat dapples across Dirk’s hairline as he shoves his way through the horde, trying not to find himself entangled with anyone, though people do their best to try and harangue him into whatever glorified grinding they’re getting down and dirty with out here on the dance floor.

Finally, the promised land comes into view, an oasis in the desert, and Dirk beelines for a set of empty stools, fishing his wallet out of his pocket. He could put this on the tab, but it doesn’t seem in good taste to do that, not when the whole reason he’s drinking by himself is to expressly forget why he’s here. God, he’d thought he was over this. The pity party throwing, not the whole – Jake thing. Dirk knows he’s not over that, might not ever be over that. It just doesn’t seem surmountable when everything Jake does is a reminder of exactly how beautiful he is, how wonderful, how perfect.

Fuck.

Dirk presses his thumb and middle finger to his brow bones, bumping the shades down a notch to massage in slow, digging circles. His eyes are closed, but he can feel it when a body slides into the vacant seat next to his. What he’s not expecting, once he’s staved off the dredging wash of a headache and looks up again, is to find that the person occupying his space is none other than John Egbert. Jake’s younger brother, goofier, who never quite grew into his two front teeth the way Jake did. Tonight could not possibly get any worse, and Dirk has that on good authority.

The good authority being himself, of course.

“Fancy meeting you here, Dirk!” John chirps, injecting as much visceral saccharine into his voice as he possibly can. It’s probably a genuine sweetness, but Dirk is never sure with him. He’s seen this kid (not much of a kid anymore, though, is he?) knock Jake, master of MMA, flat on his ass one too many times to underestimate his potential for animosity. John’s always been some strange mixture of kindness and feral, unhinged energy, entirely different than Jake.

Dirk quirks a brow at him.

“That’s something you say when you run into someone you’re not expecting to see, John. Not when you’ve quite possibly followed a guy part of the same bachelor party entourage as you to the bar.”

John has the audacity to look bashful when he ducks his head and runs a hand through his hair, laugh constrained to the crook of his elbow.

“You got me there, about the following thing, I mean.” He surprises Dirk with an almost serious expression, the upturn of his mouth a little less pronounced. “It’s just that you’ve looked pretty… sad? All night – like, way worse than usual! You’ve always had this sorta sad boy thing going for you, but this is…”

The curiosity swirling in Dirk’s stomach quickly turns into fear, and reaches a fever pitch in record time.

Dirk knows what John is going to say before he can even squeeze the words out of his dweeby, bucktoothed mouth.

He craves the sensation of melting into the stool, spilling over the edge and onto the concrete floor, liquified enough to completely evaporate.

“This is about the wedding, right?” He asks it so simply. Always straight forward in a way that Jake’s never had the capacity for. It used to be something Dirk appreciated about him, but right now it’s giving Dirk the uncontrollable urge to throttle John with his bare hands. What would the merits be in killing the groom’s own brother, he wonders. With enough time, Jake might even forgive him, or at least be understanding of his actions.

It’s certainly something to consider.

The bartender finally wanders his way over to them, and Dirk takes the excuse to ignore John with everything he’s got. “Double whiskey, neat.”

He pointedly doesn’t pay attention to what John orders for himself, though he is vaguely aware of an exchange taking place at his side. All higher cognitive function has narrowed down to the point of John’s goddamn needling. Has he really been that transparent about how miserable he’s felt all week? Has Jake noticed, too?

Dirk snorts. No, probably not; Jake’s never been all that great at picking up on social cues, maybe even worse than Dirk himself is with them, in some ways. The high of getting married has likely kept Jake so preoccupied that he hasn’t had the time to dwell on any angst Dirk may be nursing, sitting his happy little ass on like eggs in desperate need of incubation, like some kind of fucked up, pining bird.

As soon as the whiskey is in front of him, Dirk is snatching it up and throwing a twenty down in its place, tossing the glass back in one smooth motion. It drips down his throat, molten, tingling on the descent, and Dirk sets the glass back onto the bar with unsteady hands. John accepts his own fluorescent drink, and even though Dirk is staring off into the distance across the bar, he can feel John’s eyes burning a hole into the side of his skull. Expectant, like he knows that Dirk wants to run away (he does) but that he won’t (he might).

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m almost positive I’m the only one who’s picked up on it.”

Dirk’s head feels like it’s spinning when he looks at John again, but this time, he’s really looking _at_ him, not just through him. Not that it’s really surprising, but there are a lot of things that have changed about John over the years. While he may not have grown into his teeth, he definitely grew into his gangly limbs by leaps and bounds; plucked a page right out of Jake’s books and beefed up, like the fucker should be a centerfold in Men’s Health, spread across those two glorious pages and decorated appropriately with questionable stains, courtesy of a guy going through his first sexuality crisis.

Which is a thought that sounds like Dirk is projecting a little too much.

It’s just that he doubts he could wrap his hand around either of John’s bicep’s, even under pain of death, with everything on the line, and it doesn’t feel like that sort of thing should be legal when the twunk in question is John fucking Egbert.

The alcohol is doing things to his head that he wishes it wouldn’t if he’s legitimately checking out _John,_ and he is, isn’t he? At least a little.

Maybe more than a little. A lot more than a little.

What can he say? Dirk has a thing for assholes in square framed glasses, with teeth too big for their heads.

The differences don’t stop at just the physical ones, though. John is far more perceptive than Dirk recalls him being, or it could be that Dirk never paid enough attention to him when they were all kids. That would make more sense, considering that his whole life had been so painstakingly centered around his attraction and devotion to Jake – John had been the twerpy little kid clinging to his older brother’s coattails, sometimes literally. There were times when he’d hardly been able to get a word in edgewise, an awkward shadow chasing them around on every “adventure” they went on.

Dirk gets it: it’s hard not to hero worship Jake. One would be hard pressed to find anybody who disagrees with that.

When the bartender saunters their way again, Dirk orders a second double whiskey without removing his eyes from John. The strobe lights catch on his glasses, light them up blue and orange. Behind them, his face still looks a modicum too concerned for Dirk’s liking. Being read for filth isn’t something that the Striders take too kindly to; John of all people should know better, being as close to Dave as he is.

“While I appreciate you comin’ over here all gallant like, did you really think I’d be gung-ho about having this conversation with you?”

John withers, just a little, enough to make Dirk feel more in control of the situation, which is all that he needs.

“Well, no, not really, but–”

“But what, John? But you felt bad that I chose, of my own volition, to be my best friend’s best man, even when there’s enough history between us to fill a tawdry harlequin romance novel?” Dirk gives him a look, despite the fact that he can’t see it. John’s staring into his drink now, using his straw to stir the ice cubes in lazy circles. ‘Round and ‘round they go, muddled up with the bright pink… cosmopolitan? Is he honest to god drinking a cosmopolitan on the rocks?

There’s a lot to unpack here, but Dirk sure as hell isn’t about to be the one to take on the task. Plus, it looks like John is about to keep talking, despite Dirk’s desires for him to do the complete opposite.

“More like I felt bad that you’ve spent your whole life watching Jake go through this with someone that’s not you. I just know how that feels, okay? It fucking sucks.”

The sadness comes wafting off of him in waves, shocks of it like a brutal punch to the gut. Or it would be, if Dirk wasn’t numbed to this from years of firsthand exposure. John fiddles self-consciously with his glasses, taking a long pull from his drink, so Dirk does the same. It’s almost like he thinks he’s said too much, put himself out there without really thinking about it. Dirk comes to what he believes is the most logical conclusion, based off what he knows about John, and the way John is acting.

“Is it Dave?”

John looks at Dirk incredulously, the kind of look that makes Dirk feel like he’s sprouted a second head without realizing it. John buries a derisive huff into his drink and mumbles, “Yeah. Dave. Of course.”

There’s something in his voice that strikes Dirk as odd. He’s not about to pick it apart and pry John open, not about to play therapist when it’s the last thing he wants, personally, and doesn’t fancy himself as much of a hypocrite unless he’s trying to be one. Okay, so this night sucks for both of them, but Dirk knows how to handle being in love with a best friend – the tried and truth method, that which never fails: avoidance. He once again drains his whiskey in one go, slamming the glass down with force this time, then plucks John’s glass out of his hands with beguiling finesse.

John sputters, opens his mouth again, but this time Dirk doesn’t hesitate to cut him off before he can get going.

“This conversation is over, Egbert. I made my bed, I’m lying on it, and, yeah, it hurts,” Dirk breathes in and shrugs. “But it honest to god doesn’t matter how I feel. You know what _actually_ matters?”

John is watching him, maybe shocked by the oh-so mature way Dirk is handling things.

(John doesn’t know about the flask Dirk has kept tucked away in his pocket all week, couldn’t hazard a guess even _close_ to the staggering amount of times Dirk has excused himself for bathroom breaks just to take shots, and Dirk used to hate substances of all kinds, but heartbreak will do crazy things to a person. There’s nothing mature about how Dirk has handled this whole ordeal, truthfully, but it’s just as well that no one knows the truth.)

“What matters?” John asks, small, unsure.

So Dirk tells him exactly what he’s been telling himself for years, “That Jake is getting the happily ever after he always wanted, with someone who can take care of him the way he needs. I haven’t spent a lifetime loving him just to begrudge him that, John, sadness or no. I knew going into this that it wasn’t going to be a walk in the park, and that there would come a point when I needed to temporarily step away from it. Tonight is that point.”

At least he held out until the very end, right? Pretty courageous of him, if he does say so himself. He slides off the stool, putting his body nominally closer to John’s, pretends that the way John looks at him doesn’t make him feel torn to pieces. John doesn’t say anything right away. His lips purse a little. Dirk tries not to think of it as cute, but the alcohol cuts through his resolve like a knife through butter, and he can’t fight the thought away for very long.

“You’ve grown up a lot more than I’d realized.” Which totally doesn’t startle a barking laugh out of Dirk, not at all, but if it did, then he would take the opportunity to luxuriate in it before composing himself again.

“Rich comin’ from you, kid.”

John returns his laugh, does that head ducking thing that Dirk wishes he would stop doing, because it keeps turning his stomach into a tilt-a-whirl with how purely endearing it is.

“I’m serious.” He says, smiling. “Jake would be proud.”

What sucks is that Dirk knows, despite the stinging pinpricks in his chest, that John is right. If Jake knew the full extent of Dirk’s method behind the madness, the only reasoning that’s given him any solace over the past few years, he really _would_ be proud that Dirk’s coping skills are a lot better than what they used to be.

“Yeah, probably so.” Dirk goes quiet again, considering. He’s got a pleasant buzz going on right now that makes it a little easier to think about other things. Things that aren’t Jake. Things like how he took John’s drink away from him for a very specific purpose. “Do you want to dance?”

John looks shocked, or scandalized, but Dirk doesn’t give him the chance to say anything that isn’t what Dirk wants and needs to hear right now. He puts his theory from before to the test and takes John by the arm. He was right. John’s bicep is too big for Dirk’s smaller hand to fully encircle – interesting.

It couldn’t exactly be called willingly, how John lets Dirk tug him out onto the dance floor, an irony in itself when not that long ago Dirk had been doing his best to avoid the crowds. He goes, though, which Dirk takes as a good sign. Once they’re good and at the center of the mesh of bodies, John eyes him warily, waiting for Dirk to make the first move. Add shy to the list of things an adult John Egbert is, and _what_ an addition it really, truly is.

Dirk is well versed in many things. Robotics, artificial intelligence, computer programming, engineering, advanced mathematics, quantum physics, all of which could be highly revered as fundamental knowledge, at least to Dirk, but he’ll be damned if knows the first thing about dancing. Some things don’t really require extraneous knowledge, though, right? The EDM pumping loud in the air does all the work for him, so long as he keeps to the beat. And he does. John, on the other hand, is a different story. Right now what he’s doing might be considered “white people dancing,” even when John isn’t white; the side to side shuffle he settles into is every bit as unbearable to watch as the awkward look on his face.

“Is this your best impression of a fish out of water, Egbert?” Dirk laughs over the music, and John’s not crazy about being laughed at, which means that Dirk only laughs more.

“No! I don’t – dude, I don’t dance!” He’s spluttering, tension infectiously spreading from the shoulders down. A flustered John is a sight to behold, but Dirk doesn’t need him shutting down just yet. “It’s not funny!”

“It’s a little funny.” Dirk wasn’t paying much attention to it before, but now that he’s stepping into John’s space (it’s to show him how to relax, how to move with the music, that’s all), he takes note of the significant height difference between them – Dirk’s head only comes up to John’s shoulder, his eyes level with the other’s clavicle. John really is the picture perfect definition of tall, dark, and handsome, could absolutely dwarf Dirk in every way, if allowed. Something that Dirk reminds himself he should not be thinking about, even if he _is_ feeling the full effects of the alcohol now.

Definitely not enough of an excuse to objectify Jake’s brother, and, moreover, not anything to be dissecting, or thinking too hard about.

Right. Dancing. John’s abysmal at it, and Dirk knows he can fix that. He puts one hand on John’s flank, and the other on his hip, feather light. John stiffens further, if that can be imagined, but Dirk rolls his eyes and tips his head back to look up at him. “Heel, boy. No need to go freaking out on me. I’m just trying to show you how to dance, so you’ll look and feel a lot more comfortable than you do right now.”

At the very least, that gets John’s hackles to lower, until he’s resembling something less like a deer caught in the proverbial headlights. Not to say that he looks relaxed, he doesn’t, but he also doesn’t seem like he’s actively considering shoving Dirk to the ground to go running back to the rest of the bachelor party, leaving Dirk out here all on his lonesome.

There have only been a couple of occasions where Dirk has ever had to dance. Situations similar to this one, only there had been a lot more seduction going on, then; dark clubs with thumping music that Dirk could feel in his bones, tingling along his skin, crawling into him and stringing him up like a puppet. It didn’t matter how he moved, as long as it looked good, and it made people want him.

Unhealthy coping mechanisms come in all shapes and sizes. Dirk might know this better than anyone.

He chooses to go easy on John, guiding him into a very simple two-step, the most basic of club dancing basics, such that not even John Egbert’s nerdy ass can mess it up. Dirk leads him slowly, warms him up to the tempo of the music, until they’re moving to the fast and filthy beat and John hardly needs any of Dirk’s help at all.

“Looks like you can keep a little rhythm after all.” Teasing, as Dirk lets John go, reluctantly taking his hands back, despite the fact that he wishes he could roam them all over the place. Touch the muscles that ripple beneath John’s thin black t-shirt, trace them down and down and down–

He turns toe, puts his back to John, so that he doesn’t have to keep looking at his goddamn chiseled jaw, the smattering of dark hair along the edge of his face that frames it in a way that shouldn’t be legal.

Objectively, John has always been attractive, in a gawky, dorky kind of way. Dave had crushed on him once, years ago, before Dave had met Karkat and fallen head over heels for _that_ clusterfuck of obnoxious energy, and Dirk had understood why then, and he can _certainly_ understand it now. Except John is _actually_ attractive now, which could be the liquor talking, but Dirk doesn’t think it is.

Those thoughts stop in their tracks when the warm presence of a body that is unmistakably John’s presses as close to Dirk as it can theoretically get, given their environment, which is still pretty goddamn close. His natural inclination is to stiffen when John’s hands curl around his hips, and Dirk is jarred by the brazenness of it, this ballsy move throwing him all sorts of off his self-aggrandizing game. This is what Dirk doesn’t need: fuel to the axiomatic fire, more of a reason to entertain the idea of this going anywhere, of having what he wishes he didn’t want.

“Is this okay?” John murmurs, like he isn’t sending Dirk into cardiac arrest. There are words burning on the tip of Dirk’s tongue, barbed wire he swallows down. He isn’t sure why he doesn’t say what he’s thinking, which is:

_No, absolutely, one thousand percent not, it is the polar opposite of okay. Have you lost your damn mind? In the few minutes that have passed between our conversation at the bar, initiated by you, remember, have you completely forgotten who I am, and where we are? Who we’re here with? How this is going to look to anyone that might see us?_

For all that Dirk is one to make the shittiest of shitty bad decisions, he has to ask himself – is this really any sort of hill to die on, letting Jake’s younger brother grind on him in a club while they’re both drunk as shit? The pause stretches on long enough that John starts to pull back again, mumbling a warm breathed apology against the apple of Dirk’s cheek, that’s how close he is, how much he has invaded the careful bubble of space Dirk has curated, and–

Dirk grabs his hands before John can take them away, pressing them back to where they were before, hot against the sliver of exposed skin, where his shirt has ridden up and his jeans have slipped down over the jut of his hipbones. He feels John’s sharp inhale.

It’s awkward, at first; they can’t seem to sync up at all. Dirk has to force himself to remember that John doesn’t know what he’s doing, not really, cuts him some much needed slack as they fumble their way through whatever it is that’s happening. Then, like the hand of god has descended upon them, they get it right. Blessedly right. John uses his hold on Dirk to match the sway of his body just the way he needs to for it to make all the difference in the world, absentmindedly pushing their bodies flush together. Crotch to ass. Dirk groans. He takes back what he said about John being a fish out of water, this man is a goddamn, menacing _natural_.

Or a goddamn natural menace. Whichever. Both work.

The music slurs into something more bassy, a vulgar, staccato beat that Dirk could get downright sinful to, if this were anyone else. There’s only so far he can push the envelope of two bros dancing together, a little amicable bump n’ grind, and putting his hips a little too into it seems like a bad idea. Seems like it would be taking that metaphorical, symbolic envelope and shredding it to pieces, only to scoop the dusty remains up and blow them away into the humid, undulating darkness of the night. So it should make perfect sense that Dirk does it anyway.

But, oh, the way John’s hands tighten on him, shift infinitesimally higher, hike his shirt up enough to touch more skin, is so, impossibly fucking worth it. His head is a hazy mess, but he’s going to remember the way John’s breath stutters out of him for the rest of his life probably, and he’s definitely going to remember how John spins him around again, leaving Dirk gasping aloud and dizzy with the sudden movement.

Chest to chest, Dirk can feel how John’s heart is hammering behind his rib cage. The sweat damp fabric of his clothes clings to him beautifully, and there are so many things wrong with this. John tugs Dirk’s hips sinfully closer, and he can feel how hard John is, the very beginnings of an erection, an erection that is all Dirk’s own doing. His dick twitches at the realization that this isn’t a one-sided blunder of attraction at all – John wants him just as badly. Dirk struggles with this for a second as they keep dancing, his hands clinging to John’s biceps, throat dry, mouth tacky, a wispy, breathy moan catching him off guard every time John’s crotch lines up just right with his own.

What Dirk needs is a minute for his brain to catch up with what’s going on around him. The severity of the situation, if you will. What he _gets_ is John bending just enough to speak, to shatter fractured sanity.

“Do you want to…get out of here?” A question hanging in the air, scarce though it may be, between them. John’s eyes have a very particular glaze, and Dirk, no stranger to hookups as much as he hates them, knows what that look means.

The crossroads standing before Dirk is one to be treaded lightly, with utmost caution. A mistaken step could spiral him down the path of wicked disrepair, a point of no return. Sure, this could be said about most things that Dirk does, but.

This is Jake’s nerdy little brother, quietly propositioning Jake’s _ex_ in a club, on the last night of Jake’s week-long, beachside bachelor excursion. And the worst part isn’t even that it’s John with his hands hooked through the belt loops of Dirk’s low hanging jeans, it’s that – that even though he really shouldn’t be, Dirk is fucking considering it. All it takes is the smoldering way John is looking down at him through sweat matted bangs, a torch in his eyes lit aflame behind glasses knocked askew, and Dirk knows that he’s screwed.

It would be nice to say that the whole world slows down around them. That, like in the movies, the dancing bodies on all sides melt into oblivion, and the spotlight focuses itself on them. But it’s nothing like that when Dirk pushes himself onto his toes and slides his fingers up John’s arms, skates them over his shoulders, laces them behind his neck.

Dirk briefly considers kissing him as he bridges the distance, right here in front of everyone, where any of their friends could see. The kind of spectatorship powerplay that maybe any other time he’d get off on. Tonight, it doesn’t feel right. John leans into him like he’s expecting what Dirk is refusing him, so Dirk gets a different, sick sort of satisfaction out of redirecting his mouth at the last second.

He presses his lips close enough to John’s ear that there can be no mistaking his sultry words, even with the blare of the pounding music trying to snuff it out.

“Your room, or mine?”

John swears under his breath. When Dirk pulls back to smirk at him, his eyes are wide, almost completely blacked out by his pupils, and the arousal he feels radiates off of him in droves. Egbert men are all the same, then: easy to mess with, easier to manipulate into giving Dirk what he wants, as long as there’s part of _them_ that wants it, too. He lets John go to take a step back, maintaining eye contact over the triangular lenses of his shades, and jerks his head in the direction of the door.

“Well? Are you coming? I mean, you will be, but hopefully not right here. Not that I’m completely against voyeurism or anything. Far from it, honestly, but I’m not sure I’m feelin’ too keen on majority of our mutual social circle bearing witness to the glory of it, Egbert.” Dirk extends his hand to John, palm up, faux composure and false bravado encasing the harsh reality of how anxious, how terrified Dirk truly is. But he forces his fingers not to shake, schools his face into a brave front to mask all of his truths. Roots himself in the fact that John is looking at him like _that,_ in a way that Jake never did.

Deep breaths, the click of Dirk’s throat as he swallows. It’s better not to think too much about that, huh.

“So let’s either mosey on outta here, or wipe our brains clean of this moment for the rest of our natural born lives, yeah?”

John takes his hand, and while Dirk isn’t surprised, per se, his skin still jumps at the contact. They make their way through the chokehold of people, pushing everyone aside to carve a way out where there isn’t one, and as they stumble out of the club and into the windy, coastal night air, Dirk pointedly refuses to think about anything but the solid weight of John’s soft hand in his own.

He doesn’t think about how different they are in comparison to Jake’s roughhewn, calloused ones. Doesn’t consider what it might cost for them to be doing this as they silently, awkwardly wait for their Uber to show up, backs pressed against the brick wall right outside the club’s backdoor, and certainly doesn’t wonder what a night like this might have been like if it were Jake’s hand reaching over to squeeze Dirk’s thigh in the backseat when the car finally pulls up to the curb and they’ve crawled inside.

There’s that saying about keeping it in the family. It flies to the forefront of Dirk’s mind with splintering clarity, stabs into him as though reminding him just how fucked up this really is. He looks out the window at the way the coastal city races by, until he has to close his eyes to curb the way the nausea rolls in his stomach.

Come tomorrow night, Jake won’t even be an Egbert anymore, so in the end it doesn’t really matter, anyway.

Dirk sinks into the finely upholstered seat of the Sedan, listening to John tipsily chatter with their driver, and he just. Doesn’t. Think. About anything.

**Author's Note:**

> you can follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/netherborns) for shitposts and occasional writing updates!


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